Reptilian Complex
by Farenheit141
Summary: Terminus. A hero and a gunslinger join forces to confront a mutual threat- and encounter an obstacle neither expectd. ShepherdxOC, post-ME2. Rated M for violence, language, and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

**Reptilian Complex**

Act 1: _Post haste_…of ME2.

The neon sun of Afterlife beckoned closer and closer.

A stranger sauntered towards the glow, gently pushing his way through the long line of bystanders. The massive Elcor bouncer held him up, but the stranger laid a gloved hand on what passed for the aliens shoulder, whispered into what passed for the aliens ear, and passed by without a further incident. He sauntered, arms swinging and shoulders set, through the outer crowd of the dank nightclub, and brushed through the automatic door, into the belly of the beast itself. He strode to the middle of the floor, and stopped. So did the music, the chatter, and the movement throughout the club.

The stranger had been a soldier.

The boots he wore looked Alliance issue, and old, judging from the wear on the leather. The pants that had been tucked into the boots, or "bloused" as some humans called it, were dark and had a multitude of pockets. His shirt looked padded and bullet resistant, where it was visible through the black poncho that clung to his shoulders. On his left arm, which had escaped the cloaks protection, a tattoo of the words "R-Complex" bulged on his muscle.

His right arm was hidden beneath the cloak.

The strangers face was angular, scruffy, relaxed, with calm brown eyes and neat eyebrows resting under thick, tangled jet black hair. He looked around with disinterest at the multitude of beings staring at him, then moved towards the bar. The Turian barkeep eyed him suspiciously, but matched the stranger's eye and asked, "What do you want?"

"Whiskey." The stranger was soft spoke, voice laconic with a faint dryness to it.

"Now, just what in hell's name is whiskey?" The Turian barkeep asked harshly.

"Bastardized grain juice that we humans enjoy from time to time. Surely even a Turian barkeep knows what it is?" False shock spread across the strangers face. "No? Then how do you earn tips from all your human customers? Stripping?"

Bursts of mirth oozed out of the silent room, and the music began again, along with the dancers and the chatter. The Turian's mandibles clicked angrily, and he silently poured amber liquid from the ornate bottle into the glass. The stranger took it gracefully, took a sip, and smiled, shook his head. "Damn! Excellent stuff, my friend! I would have been okay with some cheap watered down shit but here you are springing Johnny Walker Black on me…"

"Drop the act, merc."

The strangers eyes widened. "Well, what, what?"

"I don't need to be told how good whiskey is. I'm a barkeep. I tend bar all day and all night, I serve damn good drinks cause that would be what I wanted if I was on the other side of the bar. As it is, I'm not on that side of the bar, I'm on _this _side of the bar. And you know what I'm wondering while I'm on this side of the bar? It's not whether or not a human's precious whiskey is to his liking, its why the human drinking the whiskey found the balls to show his ugly cup in here at all?"

The stranger took another sip of whiskey, and shrugged. "You're one to talk, handsome."

The turian growled angrily, claws self consciously rubbing the long scar on the left side of his face.

"Besides, you got the expression wrong."

"What?"

"The expression, it's 'your ugly mug'. Mug, not cup."

"What's the fucking difference?"

"Well, a mug is usually a thick cup made of ceramic, used to hold hot liquids and keep them hot. A cup is just a regular cup."

"That's horseshit, then. If a mug is a cup and cup is a cup, then there's no difference."

The stranger sipped his whiskey and retorted. "No, see, you've got it all wrong. A cup is basically anything you can drink from. If you cup your hands, you cup them to drink from them. If I could drink from my dick, I could call it a cup."

The turian started. "Yeah, yeah, now that's about the most disturbing thing I've heard all day."

"Your own fault. If you're going to insult a human, at least do it properly."

"There is no way to properly insult a human."

"A proper way to insult a merc, then."

"Same deal." He sighed. "You want another?"

"No, not really, no. I'd rather some information."

The barkeep's mandibles twitched in what could have passed as a smirk. "You waltz in here three years after you shot up this place and got kicked off this rock, and expect me to supply you with something worthwhile?"

"You already have." The stranger toasted the barkeep with his glass. "Whiskey, in any form, is worthwhile." He swirled the dregs in the bottom of his glass, then added, "Besides, it's only a question."

The turian snorted. "With you, it always starts as a question." His eye noticed a faint blur, about twenty feet behind his customer. He leaned forward, trying to keep said customers attention on him. "So, what is it now?"

"The Alliance hired me. A big, beautiful contract that'll propel me straight into retirement."

The turian let out a low whistle. "So, what's the contract?"

The stranger deftly fitted a cigarette into his mouth, ran a lighters flame over the coarse tobacco, and breathed the thick smoke into the confined space. When he continued, it was with a slow, patient air. "Well, it's like this. Out in your backyard, the Terminus, there's a bunch of Alliance colonies. And next to all of them have been raided and raped by some mysterious and malevolent force."

The blur appeared again, just twenty feet away now. The turian barkeep eyed it out of the corner of his lilac iris. "I've heard of that."

"You have?"

"Yep."

"What'd you hear?"

"Human colonies…are being attacked."

"Humans are being abducted by the colony load is what's happening." The stranger corrected dryly. "No survivors, no traces. Now the Alliance isn't alright with that. So they've hired me to go after their only lead."

"Hmmm, I see. And what's your only lead."

"She's a rogue agent, a real renegade, high clearance special forces officer. She also happens to be the savior of the galaxy."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she's a big goddamn Alliance hero. Saved the Council in the battle of the Citadel. Declared KIA a couple months after that."

The blur was getting closer, that much the barkeep could tell. He kept his face blank as he listened. "That a fact? If I didn't know better, I'd say the Alliance has sent you on a wild duck chase."

"Goose chase," the stranger quietly corrected. He shifted in his seat, left arm on the table, right arm hidden under his poncho. "I'd agree with you. Except that this big goddamn hero surfaced a couple months ago."

"Really?"

"She came up for air from whatever little pocket she had been hiding in. And that's not all. Scuttlebutt says she's working with a terrorist group, a rogue Alliance black-ops unit."

"No shit." The turian shook his head amiably.

"She's a mad dog killer who broke off her leash. She's connected with these abductions. I've been tracking her for weeks now. Popular tale says she hangs around here."

The turian's eyes widened.

Then stranger leaned forward, and said in a gravelly, dangerously low voice. "Now, my friend, I'm going to ask you one goddamned time, and you better straight up answer this one question that I came here with. Savvy?"

The blur was getting closer. The turian nodded slowly.

"Where's…Shepherd?"

The blur was right on top of the stranger. The turian bared his mandibles in a cold smile.

"Fuck you."

Then he focused on the blur.

"NOW!"

The blur struck. All hell broke loose.


	2. Chapter 2

Act 1-Scene II: The Afterlife Situation

_"NOW!"_

_ The blur struck. All hell broke loose._

The stranger saw the turian's eyes shift at the last second, and managed to squirm his body to the side- just in time to dodge the blow of the hooded woman who appeared out of thin air behind him.

Below the hood, a pair of bright luminescent eyes widened in surprise.

The stranger grabbed the woman's arm with rattlesnake speed, twisted it behind her back, and grabbed her other arm as she reached for the Locust submachine gun strapped to her side. Wrapping his paw around her small fist, he guided her like a puppet, slamming the butt of the SMG into the turian's face. The turian, who had dove for a shotgun hidden under the bar, was knocked out cold.

The stranger spun around with his back to the bar, jamming the Locust under the woman's chin with one hand while his other forced the girl's arm closer to her shoulder blade. He wasn't surprised to see that nearly everyone in the club had drawn a weapon. Patrons had drawn concealed heavy pistols, Aria's bodyguards were brandishing assault weapons from their raised platform, and even strippers had produced hummingbird sized handguns from discrete holsters. The music had stopped; the DJ popped out of his booth, waving a pair of SMG's. Everyone was yelling and screaming, except for the stranger. He removed his gun hand momentarily from the woman's head, pressed his thumb and middle finger to his lips, and let out an earsplitting whistle.

So voluminous was the shriek of that whistle, vorcha in the tunnels below the club howled and bashed their heads against the walls.

When the whistle stopped, the club was deadly silent. The stranger spoke. "Thank you, everyone, for shutting their fucking pie holes for a moment."

The woman squirmed in his grip. He twisted her arm further, and she let out a squeal of pain. He leaned closer to the woman's hood and whispered into her ear, "Sweetheart, I admire your tenacity, but if you don't stop fidgeting, I swear to God, I'll break your goddamn arm off!"

She stopped, panting and cursing him out in Japanese. He paid no attention. "What's your name, my little minx, and please, don't lie to me."

"Kasumi." Her voice was racked with pain.

"Kasumi. Kasumi Goto, the master thief, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Now who do you work for Kasumi?"

"You know who."

"Say…her…name."

"…Shepherd…" she breathed.

"How long were you behind me, Kasumi?"

"Long enough." She whispered through clenched teeth.

"You know why I'm here?"

"Yes."

"Why am I here?"

"To kill Shep…" She stopped short as he drove her hand within touching distance of her shoulder blade.

"That is incorrect, Kasumi. That's one strike against you. Two more and its batter out. Savvy?"

No response. The stranger poked the SMG harder under her chin. "_Savvy_?"

"Yes, you cow's twat!"

"Good. Now, contrary to what you think, I'm not here to kill Shepherd. Assuming we've established that increment, perhaps we can move on with this relationship. For starters, is Shepherd here? Is she in this room, at this exact moment in time?"

"Yes."

"Good. Would you excuse me for a minute?" Raising his head, he addressed the still silent crowd in the Afterlife club, yelling at nobody and everybody. "Shepheeeeeeerd! I know you're in here. Now if you're as half as smart as everybody keeps telling me, you've already set up a sniper position, and got a bead on me the moment I entered this room. Good plan, you covering Kasumi while she eavesdropped on me. Course, you probably didn't take into account the fidgety bartender, or that Kasumi had even a china man's chance of missing me. That, then, brings us to our current situation. I got a gun on Kasumi, you've got your gun on me, and everybody else has guns on everybody else. I'd say that makes a nasty Mexican stand off, would you agree?"

Silence. Then Kasumi's omni-tool glowed as she received a call. The stranger shifted his pinky, felt around her ear, and clicked the earpiece that connected to the omni tool. Kasumi listened for a moment, then spoke to her captor. "It's for you."

The stranger quickly took the earpiece, inserted it into his own ear. The voice on the other end spoke. "Yeah, I'd say this is a Mexican stand-off."

The stranger grinned. Just like the voice in all those recruitment ads that had plagued the extranet for nearly two years. "Sterling. So, since we're at an impasse, how about we find a mutual agreement? You come out, we both put down our guns, and you, me, and sweet Kasumi here walk out like the badasses we are?"

"No. Not until you answer some questions."

"Is this really the time? Kasumi, you tell the Commander, is this really the time?" The stranger twisted her arm further and the master thief cried out in pain.

The commander's voice was icy. "If you hurt her, I'll…"

"You'll kill where I stand, whereupon I shoot Kasumi on reflex, and you leave here with one less ally on your ship and one more problem on your shoulders."

Silence. Then, "What do you want?"

"Peace of mind."

"No, what do you…"

"I want you and I to talk, face to face. No guns, no guns you, no guns me."

Silence again. Then an armored figure appeared on the balcony where the dancers stood, cloak vanishing off her N7 armor. A red-headed, pale woman with vivid green eyes and a long scar on her cheek, armed with a Viper sniper rifle, pointed directly at the stranger. The stranger yanked the SMG out from under Kasumi's throat and pointed it at the sniper. "Shepherd, now, what in the hell is this? I said no guns, and we got guns on each other. That is not an agreement, that is right back to a Mexican standoff!"

Shepherd calmly squinted down her scope. "Yeah, and it'll stay that way until you answer my questions."

"Hateful witch," the stranger murmured, but he shook his head and gave in. "Alright, shoot."

"Who are you?"

"A mercenary."

"Name, idiot."

"…Whistler." Whistler let out a low whistle to emphasize his point.

"Alright Whistler, lets talk. The Alliance sent you, but you're not here to kill me?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"Then shoot me. Start a shit storm and make sure nobody leaves this room alive. That's what those Alliance boys told me you're good at."

"What?" She spat furiously.

"Raising hell, leaving no survivors. That's why the fingered you for the abductions."

"Then they're getting stupider than I thought."

"Desperate, is more like it. There's no colonies left to loot, everybody's in an uproar, Alliance's looking for somebody to blame. It's not personal, it's just that it's your turn to be on the shit end of the stick."

"So it seems. And that's why you were sent to find me?"

"And bring you in, yes."

"And if I have no intention of being, 'brought in'?"

"Well, that brings us right back to square one, then, doesn't it?"

"Yes it does." Shepherd lowered her rifle, slowly, and stood up straight. "Kasumi…"

"Yes, Shepherd?" Kasumi murmured weakly.

"I'm sorry." Then the commander disappeared as she cloaked a second time. Whistler brought the SMG back under Kasumi's chin.

The sound of a shotgun cocking shifted his aim, however, and he spun around and pumped a dozen rounds into the turian barkeep, who had revived long enough to grab his shotgun. Kasumi, seizing the moment, twisted out of his death grip, grabbed her SMG, and cloaked. A shot rang out, and a high powered round was deflected off a barrier surrounding Whistler.

That's when hell really broke loose. Everyone opened fire at everyone else, cutting the air with light and sound. Whistler rolled under the gunfire, came up with his arms free. The poncho had fallen away, revealing his right arm.

The appendage glowed with biotic energy. A complex series of channels ran down from his elbow to the glittering cestus that armored his right hand. Flexing, the cestus became engulfed in the energy, and a pulse of blue erupted from his fingers and struck an unfortunate batarian, sending him into a crowd of panicked customers who were firing wildly in all directions.

With his left hand Whistler drew a slim, long barreled pistol with an extended magazine from a holster at his side. The pistol spat, nearly silent, and armor piercing rounds sent three turians and an asari crumpling to the ground.

Whistler waded through the crowd, alternating between firing with his pistol and sending bolts of biotic energy from his fingertips. Those that got too close received a crushing blow from the cestus itself.

Whistler caved in the skull of a human, shot two more batarians, and spotted, through the crush, Shepherd and Kasumi. They were moving quickly towards the door, firing machine pistols at anyone who took aim at them. Time was of the essence.

Concentrating, Whistler roared, and loosed a series of shockwaves from his fist. The combatants in front of him bowled over like pins, and Whistler closed distance in two strides. Shepherd looked up from finishing off a turian armed with a knife. She raised her pistol to strike Whistler, but he was faster, and sent his armored fist into her side, around the spot where her lungs were. She gasped and crumpled. Kasumi raised her fist to strike and was rewarded with a head butt that sent her sprawling.

Whistler stooped to pick up Shepherd when a hammer blow slammed into the back of his skull. He dropped to his knees and found an armored knee waiting for his chin. Sprawled on his back, his vision swam, then momentarily focused on the cold turian face looking down on him.

"What the…where'd you come….where'd you come from," he murmured weakly.

The turian didn't answer as he raised his Vindicator rifle like a baseball bat.

Quite suddenly, Whistler's head found the floor.

Voices, distant but distinct.

"…I'm sorry, Aria."

" 'Sorry' doesn't clean the bloodstains off the floor, Shepherd."

"I didn't mean for it to end like this. If you're looking for someone to blame, I'd suggest looking towards the bartender and his itchy trigger finger."

"You were the one who was running a sting operation in my nightclub. You were the one who brought me a bloody mercenary and asked for a favor."

"Aria, if they came after me, it's only a matter of time before they send more."

"Is that a threat?"

"A warning. How do you think business will fare if an Alliance strike group shows up on your doorstep?"

"…So then, what do you need?"

"A private booth, no interruptions, for two hours."

"You have the restrooms for an hour and a half. After that, you, your ship, and your new 'friend' had better be gone, or I'll be ruining my nice streak tonight, Shepherd."

"Thanks."

Boots marching off. Silence. Then-

"Are you alright commander?" The slightly sibilant voice of a male turian resonated.

"Fine. A cold gun barrel prodded his head. "What do you think?"

"Definitely a mercenary m'am. I didn't think the Alliance would steep so low."

"Neither did I."

"I say we put two in his back, leave him to rot in some gutter."

Silence. Whistler tensed slightly.

"No, not yet. We need to see how much he knows. We'll take him, put the pressure on him, get as much information as we can. Then, and only then, we'll decide if he's worth keeping, or killing."

Whistler relaxed, which was good, because his headache was bad enough without tensing up. He was captured, but alive, if for only an hour and a half more.

A lot could happen in an hour and a half.


	3. Chapter 3

Act I-Scene III: Restroom Quickie

A deluge of icy cold water propelled Whistler back into the world of the living. He looked around wildly. Three figures stood before him- Shepherd, her pretty face etched into a sour expression, Kasumi, her hood thrown off and an ice pack held to her pale forehead, and the Turian who had went yard on Whistler's head earlier. All three regarded him with suspicious eyes and crinkled frowns. Whistler cleared his throat, and decided to make first move.

"Let's see," he murmured half to himself, licking his lips. He jerked his chin, the only free part of his body, towards Kasumi. "That's Kasumi Goto, the master thief." He turned to the turian. "That's former C-Sec officer Garrus Vakarian, nightly known as the turian vigilante, "Archangel"." Finally his gaze settled. "And you must be Lieutenant Commander Shepherd, former Savior of the Citadel, Hero of the Alliance, now wanted terrorist and consort of ultra-xenophobic group codenamed "Cerberus"." Whistler shook his head, pausing to tug at the bonds that held him to the chair. He was in a dank and dirty bathroom, probably still in Afterlife.

"Impressive resume, isn't it?" Shepherd responded nonchalantly. "Don't you think, Garrus?"

"I'd hire you." Garrus thumbed the machine pistol at his side.

Whistler snorted. "Oh, now what's this, eh? Good cop and bad cop? Shepherd's the brains, you're the muscle, she asks the questions, you adminster the pain…?"

Shepherd took two steps forward and backhanded Whistler with her gauntlet. Whistler's head jerked to the side, and he grunted in pain. There was momentary silence in the cramped bathroom, but then Whistler spat a thin line of bloody saliva to the floor, and looked up, his smile crimson and horrible.

Shepherd moved to his left side. "Mr. Whistler, you appear to be operating under the delusion that this is a 'good cop, bad cop' situation. This isn't a 'good cop, bad cop' situation, it's not even a 'cop' situation. This is 'between a rock and a hard place' situation. You're between a turian vigilante," she said as Garrus took post at Whistler's right, "and a wanted killer with very little to lose."

Garrus squeezed Whistler's shoulder none too gently. "We'll be asking the questions, scum bag, and you damn well better answer them."

Whistler sighed. Behind his back, his fingers were already picked at the knotted cords that bound him to the chair. "Well, at least you got the expression right."

"Excuse me?"

" 'Scum bag'. You're the first turian tonight to actually properly insult me. Some turians say 'muck bag' or 'fuck bag', which, in themselves, are actually half decent insults. But some really screw up and say 'cum bag', and that, that's just three shades of wrong."

Garrus glanced at Shepherd. She shrugged, then focused her gaze on Whistler. "Alright, your name is Whistler. You're a mercenary, hired by the Alliance to hunt me down, because they think I'm responsible for the colony abductions. You were sent to bring me in- alive, I'm presuming- not kill me. That about right?"

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

"That's just great. Now," Shepherd stooped eye level with Whistler and focused her scalpel gaze on him, "how long have you been following me?"

"Since Horizon."

"Since Horizon?"

"Yep. That was the only positive sighting the Alliance had of you since you dropped by the Citadel and cursed out the Council. Nice move, by the way."

Shepherd ignored the comment. "Who sent you, specifically? Who gave the order?"

"There were three of them, two underbosses and one ring leader. They brought me in, plunked me down in a shockingly similar situation to this, and gave me the specifics."

"Give me their names."

"No."

A strike from Garrus, right cheek. Whistler spat blood on the turian's boot. "Regards from my aching jaw, you mandible mouthed bastard."

Shepherd continued. "…How much did they pay you."

Whistler matched her searing emerald eyes with his disinterested brown stare. "They paid me enough for me to start tracking you, but not enough to buy my discretion."

"How typical. The only code you hired guns live by is the cash." Garrus spat.

"Cash and discretion, Archangel. The two go hand in hand. And seeing as how I've broken the discretion rule, I might as well break the cash rule too." He looked back towards Shepherd. "Take me. I'm yours."

Even under her ice pack, Kasumi giggled. Everyone else was silent.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sitting here, bound and helpless as it was, my life in your hands. How much time has gone by since Aria gave you the restroom? Ten minutes? Fifteen? You can have me here a week and a half and fuck me up, down, side-to-side and I won't breathe a word of what I know…"

"You know jack-shit!"

"I know things, you know jack shit."

Silence.

"My fate is in your hands. You can kill me, but that won't help you any which way. You can torture me, and get a good laugh out of it, and that's all. You can recruit me, and I'll point you in the right direction, help hunt down those pecker suckers that called the dogs on you. So, I sit here, on the threshold of damnation or salvation, telling you, 'I'm yours. Take me'."

All three of his captors looked at him in stunned silence. Garrus looked vaguely pissed, Kasumi, under a mask of irritation, looked somewhat intrigued, and Shepherd simply looked shocked.

"Kasumi, Garrus, wait outside."

"Shepherd, wait. Are you sure…"

"Just do it."

The two slunk out of the restroom, leaving Whistler and Shepherd alone. The latter drew something from her thigh holster. Whistler recognized his sidearm. "So, that's where you scampered off to."

Shepherd said nothing as she examined the pistol. Finally she looked up. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"Alliance prototype, Special Ops handgun. Designated XM66 Sidewinder. Whisper quiet with an enhanced mass accelerator for hyper velocity rounds. Fifteen shots per heat sink."

Shepherd snapped the heat sink into the slot and aimed at the wall. "Custom sights. Nice."

"Thank you."

Then Shepherd aimed at Whistler. "Now, this is me aiming your Sidewinder at you. What's your first reaction?"

Whistler closed his eyes, the cool muzzle feeling great against his blistering headache. "Bliss."

Shepherd laughed, harshly but at the same time musically. Whistler smiled. The laughter cut off almost immediately though, and Shepherd regarded the captive with a strange look.

"What is this?"

"I'd say a hostile interrogation."

"No, I mean, why? Why would you offer to help me? You're a mercenary for crying out loud. You were hired to bring me in, not to turn coat and help me? So, you tell me, what are you playing at? Why?"

Whistler was silent. He looked down and studied the bloodstains on his boots. When he spoke again, it was with a far off voice, as if he wasn't there, but somewhere in his past. "Because a long time ago, I knew a person just like you. A person who was doing the right thing, but getting killed over it. And there was no one to help them." He looked up, brown eyes calm and sincere. "Now, if you're going to execute me, spare no hesitation. If not, then lets get the hell out of here."

Shepherd studied him, then slowly replaced the pistol into her holster. She took a step back, and studied her reflection in the cracked mirror. "So, assuming you're actually speaking the truth instead of spouting bullshit, you know who these guys are?"

Whistler's fingers were aching, but he had the first knot undone. "Yep."

"You can contact them?"

"No, but I know how to find them."

" 'How to find them', not 'where to find them'?"

"Yep."

"Why should I trust you?"

Second knot was undone. "So don't. But I know the names, and you probably know the place already."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. They just said I'd make the drop off at the place. Said it was fitting, considering all the times you and your black-ops buddies gathered there."

It came back to Shepherd suddenly, the information slipping through her mind like acid. "That place."

Whistler's fingers stumbled on the third knot. "What place?"

Shepherd didn't tell him. She didn't tell him the name of the place- The Ex-Patriot.

The Ex-Patriot was not a bar or a club, but a chain of bars and clubs that spanned the entire galaxy. Of course, they all went by one name or another, but they were all known as the Ex-Patriot. The one in particular Shepherd was thinking about was located on…

"Luna. This order came all the way from Earth?"

Whistler shrugged, fingers working like fairies. "They want to bring you home, Shepherd. That's where it all started, that's where it should end. Full circle, poetic, in a morbid way."

"Can't argue with you there." Shepherd rubbed her cheek, where a bruise was already forming. "So, I know the place, and you know the guests. I guess all that's missing is the time of this party."

"I can get that.

"…I'm listening."

"I have one contact. Some weasel of a Lieutenant. Ludlow. We find him, get him to arrange a time at the place, which, I'm assuming you know, and then we go there, I'll ID the faces, we grab the ringleader, and save your pert little ass from certain damnation. Savvy?"

Shepherd turned to face him. "I guess under the circumstances, we'll have to work together."

"You guess correctly."

Shepherd looked at him. "I don't trust you, but I don't have any choice." She drew a switchblade from a patch on her arm, and leaned over to slice the knots holding Whistler to the chair. "Welcome abroad, Whistler."

"Charmed, I'm sure." Whistler suddenly stood up from the chair, cord falling away from him. Shepherd started back, eyes widening. "No, no way. I tied those knots myself…"

"Then that's why they gave me so much trouble." Whistler rubbed the raw skin where the cord had dug in, then looked around. "Did you, per chance, pick up my poncho? I'm rather fond of it."

Shepherd didn't answer. "You could have bust out and knocked me out again."

Whistler turned to her, expression incredulous. "And what good would that have done? I had to convince you to let me help you." He held out his hand. "Now that that's settled, my pistol, please?"

Shepherd hesitantly surrendered the pistol, which Whistler promptly holstered. He spotted his poncho in the corner, and threw it over his head. Adjusting it to cover his cestus armored right hand, he glanced up. "Oh, and for the record, I'm sorry slugged you back there."

"You'd better be." Shepherd self consciously rubbed her cheek again.

"The bruise will fade. It always does."

Shepherd sighed, and turned to walk away. "Stay here. I'm going to have to explain this Garrus and Kasumi, then we'll move out." She gave him a hard look. "You'd better be straight up with me."

Whistler gave her a curt nod, but as she turned to go, said, "Shepherd?"

The commander turned back. "Yeah?"

Whistler's expression was unreadable. "If we're being straight up with one another, then I want you to know something. Once you take me under your command, you take on the knowledge of this rule, this one rule I have."

"What's that?"

"I finish every job I'm paid for- every…single…one."

Shepherd stared at him, expression also unreadable.

"And when the time comes, you'll have to deal with that."

"…Yeah."

And with that, Shepherd walked out the door to inform her crew that they had a new member, and a new mission, and a new complication.


End file.
